Just Another Moment
by Midnight Caller
Summary: G/S R -- chapter IIA (Sara) added
1. Default Chapter

Just Another Moment By Midnight Caller  
  
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Wish I did. And the last time I looked, lawsuits cost more than $4.75, so please don't sue me.  
  
Rating: PG-13/R  
  
Summary: Well, this started off as a companion piece to Images II, from Grissom's POV, but it sort of... evolved into something else. I don't really know how to summarize it.  
  
Spoilers: Up through Hunger Artist  
  
Archive: Just tell me where  
  
Thanks to my virtual support team, namely Meg and Devanie. And thanks to my computer, brought back to life by Dell tech support after it attempted suicide late Friday night. I'm starting to think it was a political protest against something I wrote. Maybe my motherboard is a member of a parental watchgroup for sexually explicit material. But, it's cooperating enough to let me finish and post this, so thank you, machine.  
  
And, I've never done this before, but I'd like to dedicate this to my father, who made me realize why you have to stop and smell the damn roses once in a while. Perspective is highly underrated. Love you, Dad.  
  
***  
  
I never thought it could consume so much energy just thinking about one person. Being distracted by my thoughts happens all the time; the preoccupation of case details, victim autopsies, interrogation room confessions, the linear regression of insects on a body. All of those things exercise my brain to its fullest, every hour of every day. But lately, the newer thoughts are more than just a preoccupation. It's more of an obsession, a physical and mental addiction to a living, breathing person. That dependency scares me, startles me, appearing out of nowhere in the middle of a thought, on the drive home, in the shower, or, more recently, in my sleep.  
  
As of late, Sara stares at me a lot, and I want to know what she's thinking. I wonder if she has fears and doubts about me, or if she's able to look past my flaws. I pray for the latter.  
  
I wish I could touch her. I would take a strand of her hair and smooth it between my forefinger and thumb, memorizing the texture of the cuticle with my fingertips. I'd love to press my nose to her skin and breathe deeply, like one does to smell a flower. She's intoxicating.  
  
She has skin like the smooth marble of a Greek statue, only the warmth and the blush of circulating blood reminds me unequivocally that she's more alive than I could ever be. I remember feeling that warmth on my face not too long ago, her thumb tenderly stroking my cheek. She said it was chalk. I'm not entirely sure there was any, but it doesn't matter. I should have known by my skyrocketing pulse that she affects me like no other.  
  
And then there's my dream. The one I've had every night for the past twelve days. I'm in my apartment, resting on the couch, and just as I'm about to nod off there's a knock at the door. The exact number of knocks changes from night to night, but there's always an urgency to the rapping. Sleepily, I rise from the couch and open the door without even asking who it is; I already know it's her. She never says anything, she just walks over the threshold and suddenly her hands are on me, warm and tender, uncovering a level of comfort in me I didn't even know existed. Instantaneously all the wrong I've ever done her is righted, and she forgives me with a kiss so agonizingly sweet it tortures me to no end when I awaken clutching the empty sheets beside me.  
  
I haven't shared my bed with anyone in a long time, but I never thought the need to do so would ache inside me like a dull, nagging throb. Oh, God, how I just want to tell her everything, to pull her away from the death and suffering and horrendous refuse of humanity we see everyday, and show her that I've come to love her with such relentless ferocity that it's beyond my abilities to quantify or categorize how I feel.  
  
I guess that's where I start to become deficient. I suppose it's a naturally occurring fault that elements falling outside the realm of physical authentication confuse the hell out of me. I let emotions build within me until they fester in the pit of my stomach, and by the time the confusion and love and all the other incomprehensible ways she makes me feel evolve back into a singular, recognizable sensation again, it seems I've managed to destroy everything pleasurable about it.  
  
It's just so much more manageable that way, and I can go on with the day's work, earn my paycheck, and return home to the shielded specimens hanging behind the glass on my walls. I envy those winged creatures, suspended in timeless beauty, frozen at the peak of their essence. I stare through the glass, wondering how many others are fortunate enough to have their lives cut short, lest the colors fade from their wings, forever losing their beauty to the simple, unforgiving truth of death.  
  
Avoiding regret in life does hold some urgency for me. Unlike my glass- cased roommates, my colors have begun to fade, and I worry that I might succumb to the simple truth still holding on to too many ifs. I can already sense the loss, phantom pains from a heart still strangely trapped in the process of healing itself. And so I continue to stare at those frozen wings and wonder how much longer the color will stay with me, if it hasn't already faded.  
  
Maybe that's why I need her. Maybe... maybe she is what will stop the loss, the pain, the methodical deterioration of what is left of my soul. At least that's what she makes me think is possible. She's so unaware of her abilities, too. From a scientific standpoint the entire concept is full of holes and utterly nonsensical, yet I can't deny that in her presence I feel more like a butterfly than a tired, old man who shares his bed with the scattered remnants of whimsical dreams.  
  
**  
  
My own breath echoes in my head as her heat comes closer and closer, the energy radiating from her body to mine like a warm, soft light. A moment passes before she caresses my lips with her own, the slight hint of her tongue alerting every nerve already on edge. But before long, it comes like a rush of water; the acute, agonizing sweetness that I try hard to deflect so that I might protract the dream just... another moment longer. That's all I want. Just another moment...  
  
I'm allowed one more taste of her before my slumber is interrupted by more than just fading hopes. I blindly reach for the phone by my bed, and bring the receiver to my ear with a loud, tired exhale.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
There is a slight pause before a jarring CLICK lets me know the other party has hung up. With a heavy sigh, I roll back over, bury my head in the pillow, and sleepily attempt to recreate the final moments of my dream.  
  
**  
  
Despite what I try and tell myself, I love my days off. I rarely sleep late, but my body wakes on its own, which is far more refreshing than any alarm clock could ever be. The slightest hint of light illuminates my drawn curtains, and I watch as the sun shining through the weave of the cloth creates a distorted, flowing pattern on my floor. The pattern... it makes me think of the case we closed yesterday, or rather, the case Sara closed. Ashleigh James, sentenced to death by her own inability to love herself. All the makeup in the world couldn't save her from not believing the girl on the billboard was who she truly was. But Sara knew. She knew before any of us.  
  
I sigh again, and then I freeze. My ears may be deceptive at times, but it's more than just a shift in the ambient tone of my room - the hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise, one after another, until a chill finally creeps down my back and I shudder.  
  
Slowly, I turn onto my other side, and then some unseen force prevents me from leaping from my bed in surprise. There, next to me, lying on top of my blanket, is Sara's sleeping form.  
  
Her back is to me, her knees slightly tucked up toward her chest in a semi- fetal position. Involuntarily, my head falls to the side as I watch her shoulders rise and fall with each breath, and my ears prick up to hear the tiny sighs escaping from her mouth. So many questions hit my brain at once that they seem to cancel each other out, and I settle for simply watching her.  
  
As the chilled morning air hits the bare skin of my chest, I'm suddenly very aware that my sheets have fallen down to my waist, clearly exposing the elastic band of my boxer shorts. Carefully, I lean over, wondering if I should wake her or just enjoy the visit, as much as the reason behind it is piquing my curiosity. I decide on the latter, and slide back down under the sheets, gently scooting just the slightest bit closer to her, enough so that I feel the tautness of the blanket where the weight of her body presses it to my mattress.  
  
I must be more tired than I realize, and I feel my eyelids growing heavier with each passing second. But just as I start to slide farther into the encompassing pool of slumber, my other senses start to betray my brain's need for sleep. The most gorgeous blend of citrus and something between rose pedals and honeysuckle finds its way over to me. And then I feel the bed shake slightly as she stirs. I figure it's just a minor adjustment, but then she shifts toward me, her backside suddenly pressing against my stomach. I do everything in my power to translate every thought that has just passed through my brain into the smallest sigh I have ever released.  
  
I hear quiet, peaceful breaths coming from her, and I'm suddenly overwhelmed by the need to ... touch her. After all, she climbed into my bed for a still unknown reason, so can't I just... feel her? Just for a moment? All I want is a moment. But as quickly as I reach toward her, I draw back. As my hand instinctively retracts, that intense sensation of loss instantly fills my soul, and I bite my lip to hide the pain, to quickly grasp the color slipping from my being.  
  
I close my eyes against the blinding agony, and try to ignore the feel of her still pressed against me. An occasional breeze parts my curtains, allowing tiny increments of sunlight to flow into the room. As the cloth opens, the room is briefly flooded with a pastel yellow, and as the drapes close, my surroundings return to their usual muted blue.  
  
It's when I lay my head back on the pillow that I feel it. Skin. Her skin. It slides over mine as she takes my hand from where it rested on my thigh, and brings it around to in front of her. I don't even know if she's still asleep, if she somehow felt the cheerless drain I just experienced and knew exactly how to stop it. After several long exhales assure me that she's not yet awake, I relax and allow my arm to rest over her body, marveling at how just the slightest gesture on her part ebbs my fears and keeps the pain at bay. My thumb gently rubs over the smooth knuckles of her hand, and I settle in against her as the heat of her body bleeds through the blanket to warm me.  
  
**  
  
It's like she knows exactly what I want and how I want it, and giving it brings her as much pleasure as it does me. I feel this in the kiss that I've managed to sustain without interruption for longer than I ever thought possible. I feel it in the way her hand runs up my arm and along my chest, in the way she looks at me when she first appears in my doorway. I squeeze my eyes shut, and our contact intensifies, and for the first time in my life I realize this is what contentment must feel like, what it means to step back and understand that pure, true happiness cannot be defined, enumerated, or explained, and, more importantly, that it doesn't need to be.  
  
**  
  
When my eyes finally open, I'm not entirely sure I've woken from my dream. After all, my bed isn't empty, as the warm body next to me confirms. What's different, though, is that she's very much awake, and has turned to face me in such a way that the length of her front is pressed against mine. My arm is still draped over her waist, my hand poised at the small of her back. She returns my gaze with hypnotic eyes, and I'm suddenly lost in their complexity, unable to offer any words in response to what I see.  
  
"Grissom ... I'm sorry for hanging up on you."  
  
I dimly recall the phone, and the click on the other end. And I still can't speak. Sara Sidle is in my bed.  
  
"I just wanted to make sure you were here..."  
  
"Is..." I start, trying to brush the shakiness from my voice. "Is everything okay?"  
  
She nods after a moment of hesitation, and despite wanting to know more, whether or not I believe her seems irrelevant given the circumstances.  
  
The bed shakes again, and I feel her shiver beneath my arm. "Are you cold?" I can feel goose bumps on her skin, but I can tell she's reluctant to answer right away.  
  
"I'm a little chilly," she mumbles.  
  
"Second drawer on the left. You'll find a sweatshirt in there."  
  
She gives me a little smile, ruffles my hair, and then rolls off the bed, walking toward my dresser. Immediately, I miss her, and she's only three feet away. I hear the drawer slide open, and then close, and I look over to see her slip her arms and head through the fleece clothing. She walks back over to the side of the bed, and then pauses, looking down at the mattress. As I try and figure out what she's debating, she lifts up the sheets and climbs under them, and before I can even process her actions, she's back in the same position, pressed up against me.  
  
After I catch up with my thoughts and my breath, I try, unsuccessfully, to relax. Without the blanket to filter out my cravings as they escape me, her seems heat twice as intense, her presence twice as overwhelming, the skin of her hand twice as soft as it slides across my back.  
  
The curtain blows open again, spreading light across my walls, and I follow her gaze up to the ceiling. The yellow and blue don't mix like their primary nature implies. The blue refuses to vanish, and the yellow light seems satisfied to simply float over the surface like an atmosphere of pastel. They're caught beautifully between blending and separation, as one filters the other like two layers of paint on a canvas, neither color seeking supremacy, but both borrowing each other's characteristics. It's a fascinating, symbiotic relationship, a liaison derived not from obligation, but from mutual understanding and the realization that their synthesis is far more remarkable and beautiful than what they are when separated.  
  
Sara shifts again, her arm pulling me closer, and I can hear my nervousness when I quietly clear my throat. After a long moment, I gain the courage to move my hand down her back until I stop at the bottom of the sweatshirt, and then after a pause I move back up to her shoulders. I repeat the action over and over, even after her eyes shut and she moves closer. Her hand gently starts to trace a line along my waistband, moving from my stomach to my spine and then back again. My abdomen shivers from the contact, and it's my turn to close my eyes.  
  
When my hand wanders down to her waist again, I stop it there, and run my fingers along the bottom of the material, mimicking what she's doing to me. With my eyes still shut, I press more firmly with my hand, moving under the fleece and then under her own shirt until my fingers finally touch the skin of her torso. When I find her eyes again, they're moving closer, blurring from proximity as I suddenly feel her breath on my skin, and then I taste her lips as they move lightly over mine. My eyes close again.  
  
The kiss is both urgent and gentle, our lips grazing against one another before firmly joining together, the action repeating over and over as our mouths move in a rhythm I can't even fully comprehend. And then, I feel just the slightest tip of her tongue, sliding along my lip, glancing across my own tongue in the process. The sensation sets off a tingling surge of electricity that runs down the length of my entire body. Quietly sighing against her mouth, I run my hand up her back and tighten my hold.  
  
With our eyes closed, we lie there for what seems like forever, slowly moving our hands over each other, our lips touching now and again, and I just enjoy the feel of her on my skin. Amazingly, despite the intimate nature of our actions, I feel no urgent need to move forward, move toward what I used to long for in my dream but could never have.  
  
At the same time, I resist the impulse to categorize this moment, to strip the pleasure from what I feel. For once, I don't want it to be manageable; I want to be confused, bewildered, and completely overwhelmed.  
  
Eventually, our mouths separate, and she pulls her head back just a few inches. We can't help but smile at one another, and I feel her wrap her arm back around my waist. She lays her head on the pillow, closes her eyes, and pulls herself against me.  
  
I follow her lead and rest my head next to hers, and then curl my arm around the skin under her shirt. We share one last kiss before I close my eyes, drifting off to sleep with the knowledge that my dream will be waiting for me when I wake up.  
  
  
  
(fin.) 


	2. Just Another Moment pt 2

"Just Another Moment - II"  
By Midnight Caller  
  
  
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, I'd be very rich, and in good company with the team of CSI writers. But, I don't own them, so instead I'm quite not rich, and I keep company with my suicidal computer.   
  
Rating: Strong PG-13/R, leaning more toward R for one part.   
  
Summary: Picks up just after "Just Another Moment," and sort of goes from there. I... am not good with summaries. I'm also terrified of writing WIPs because I fear I'll never finish them, so instead this is simply part two. There will most likely be a part three, but I'd rather just have them as separate entities.  
  
Thanks: To Meg and Alison, for the beta-licious comments and advice, and to Dev & Andi for creating the amazing site and message board. This fandom rocks.   
  
Archive: Just tell me where  
  
  
  
*****  
  
I'm moments from waking; the dream starts to fade, and I feel sensations on my skin - the sheets, a pillow. Oh, God, one more moment, please... just give me one more moment. Now that's I've tasted her for real, the dream has manifested into a delicious tease of what I hope is to come. But I want it now.   
  
I sigh as our lips part, and as my eyes open I wonder if I will miraculously wake to the real version of my dream; Sara's lips on mine, my hands on her body. Instead, I realize I am alone, my arms wrapped around the pillow she slept on last night. Or did she? Was she even here? I quickly cover my eyes, far too close to a rush of humiliation I never wanted to feel. My other arm flops over, grabbing the nearest clump of material. Not sheets... not blanket... it's my sweatshirt, neatly folded next to the pillow. So she was here, I almost announce to the room, feeling relieved until it dawns on me; she is gone. For real. Something must have changed her mind. We didn't even make love, but yet a suffocating, thick oil of guilt suddenly washes over me. Somehow I have done something wrong. Somehow this is my fault. I'm a fool to think I could ever make her happy.   
  
  
  
The rest of my day seems insignificant. I read the paper, frowning as I witness the collapse of humanity as we know it. Not even the science page holds my interest: holes in the ozone layer; planets that are no longer planets; cloned animals. I've never felt so utterly... alone. No, this goes deeper than loneliness, I think. Despite spending the night with the one person who holds any real, tactile meaning for me, the emptiness consumes me at a staggering rate. Never before have I simply wanted to just ... share my life with someone. So the world is engaged in self-massacre - somehow she could bring hope to it all. She could make anything bearable. Even if I couldn't ... hear her, I know she could. She could even, perhaps... love me.   
  
I shake my head at the absurdity of the thought, and try to lose my pain in the comforting mystery of the crossword puzzle. Six letters. Cryptic. Hard to define. Unknowable. I fill in the blanks, a strange firmness forming over my lips. E-n-i-g-m-a.   
  
  
  
Work the following day is uneventful for the most part. I had hoped it would be busy, to keep my mind off the strange cloud of emotions floating around in my head. I take advantage of the unusual lull to lessen the load of paperwork on my desk; status reports, time sheets, month-old phone messages from people I don't even know and don't care about calling back.   
  
It seems everything has something to do with her. Every time I come across her name it takes me a few moments to recover and continue with my work. The very sight of it causes my eyes to run over the letters, trying to find meaning in the curve of the S, the slope of the A, the complicated rhythm of the R. One paper has her handwritten name, and I involuntarily glide my fingers over the ink, willing her to materialize in my office... in my bed. I'm lost in the marks now. It's just her name, but I've gone beyond that, it seems. I've transcended the artificial trappings of being intrigued by how it looks; it's come to my attention that my infatuation has reached a level where just the very knowledge that she touched this paper and wrote these letters leaves me irrationally and ridiculously ... spellbound.   
  
I finally see her in the breakroom. She comes in for some coffee, and my presence catches her off-guard. Glancing around, she offers a tiny smirk, and I can't help but echo the sentiment. Just when I'm about to ask her how she managed to slip out before I woke up, Catherine comes in. Sara pours her coffee and leans against the counter, stealing glances at me every few seconds. I try to concentrate on my crossword, but Catherine's raised eyebrows don't escape my notice. She looks at me, and then at Sara, and then heads for the coffee, a smirk of her own now forming on her lips. Sara takes one more look, bites her lip, and then walks out the door. 48 Down: five letters. Midpoint. Dividing line. Intermediate state. I sigh and write the answer. L-i-m-b-o.   
  
  
  
That night I go through the motions. Drive. Dinner. Some TV. A little reading.   
  
Later, in my room, I stare at my bed. I raise an eyebrow, and then strip the linens from the mattress. Pulling a new set from my closet, I take a quick sniff to reaffirm their freshness, and then make the bed. Afterwards, I again stare at the layers of blankets and sheets, trying to imagine myself lying there next to her.  
  
I head to the bathroom, peeling off my shirt in the process. I stare in the mirror for a few moments, not to disapprove of what I see, but to look at my eyes. I scootch forward, lean over the sink, and stare right into my pupils. The nearness is quite alarming, but as I gaze into the black and surrounding blue, I wonder if she can see how I feel when she looks at me. Do my eyes give me away? Do I want them to?   
  
I turn off the bathroom light, and in the semi-darkness of my room, I suddenly find myself at the dresser, pulling out the sweatshirt she wore. It still smells like her. I place it on the top of the bureau, and find my way to the bed, sliding under the covers with an audible groan. I've found that a groan seems to accompany nearly every one of my physical activities of late; bending over, getting up, reaching into the refrigerator. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me - I've just now discovered I'm turning into my parents? This has been happening for quite some time, and I know it. Perhaps it's that I'm just being re-reminded by ... circumstances. I'll admit; I was fairly self-conscious the first time she slipped beneath my covers and ran her fingers over my skin. But the moment she let me touch her back, I somehow realized it didn't matter. And now, as I lay here, hands under my head, staring at the ceiling, I have to wonder if I will ever have the pleasure of sharing my bed with her again. I turn my head to the side, press my nose against my arm, and close my eyes, trying to recreate that moment as I feel myself drifting off.   
  
I don't know how much time has passed, but somewhere in the murky world of semi-sleep, I sense movement next to me. Maybe it's just the jerk of my body as it pulls itself back into consciousness, but after the bed shakes again, I know it's something else. Someone else.   
  
Even though it's my bed, my room, I stay very still, just waiting. This is all still so new to me. Sara has come into my bed twice in one week. What does this make us? Anything? I wonder if this even means as much to her as it does to me.   
  
It only takes a few more breaths before I feel her heat through the fleece of the sweatshirt. I love that she wants to wear it, and that she saw it in the first place. Her arm falls over my chest, and her hair falls on my shoulder. I wrap one arm around her, hugging the skin beneath the sweatshirt, and with my other hand, I gently finger the end of a strand of her hair.   
  
Should I say something? Staring out into the darkness, I don't feel a strong urge to speak, but maybe she wants me to. My mouth opens, and I know the first word to emerge will be her name, but just as my vocal chords begin their vibration, I feel her cheek on my chest. Her breath tickles my skin, escaping from her mouth as tiny sighs, and I recognize the steady rise and fall of her body as a indication that she's fallen asleep. After a few moments of listening to her breathe, I follow her cue, and slide my finger along her hair one more time before my hand falls to her shoulder and I slowly return to my dream.   
  
The buzzing of the alarm wakes me with a start, interrupting my usual pleasantries, and I sigh heavily. I turn my head to where Sara slept last night, then let out a long, slow, bewildered exhale; I am alone with the sweatshirt again. I lie there for a few minutes, staring at the fleece. One more sigh fills the room, and then I force myself to the shower.   
  
  
  
This work week was made to torture me. I didn't think it was possible for things to be any less uneventful. I spent the first three hours of shift signing reports, and now the thought of my own initials makes me cross-eyed. For the past two hours I've sat in my chair, staring at my spider. The baboon tarantula. He's moved around the same cubic foot of aquarium at least three dozen times, but continues to make each step with extreme caution. Once in a while, when someone passes by my door, his tiny hairs will stand on edge. Slowly, they retract, and he continues on his cyclical quest.   
  
I'm entranced by the movement of his legs, slow and methodical, lightly feeling out the area before planting a step. Watching him distracts me so much I don't even hear the knock at my door.   
  
"Grissom."  
  
My head shoots up and I blink to free myself from the trance. Sara stands in my doorway, leaning against the frame. She smiles at my expression: a twelve year-old boy with his first chemistry set.   
  
She steps into the room, lowering her voice. I strain foward to hear her.  
  
"About this morning... I... I just wanted to get an early start."  
  
I nod, unconsciously twisting my mouth, and awkwardly bite my lip. Words are not my speciality.   
  
"I have some housework to do tonight... laundry, some cleaning... so... I'm not sure I'll be by later."  
  
I wait, to make sure she's finished. "Okay." That's all I manage to say, despite the infinite other things floating around in my head. Come. Stay. Don't ever leave. I smile, though, so hopefully that says what I can't.   
  
She nods. "I'm going to get dinner..." she says, and maybe I take too long to take her up on the offer, because she continues, "So I'll be back in half an hour." She backs out of the room, leaving me to my spider.   
  
After I take an extended dinner break, I return to my office and whip out the crossword I was working on before. 38 Across. Ten letters. Bewilderment. Bafflement. Confusion. P-e-r-p-l-e-x-i-t-y.   
  
  
That night, I set out the sweatshirt again, but my anxiety gets the better of me. I can't seem to concentrate on a single thought, and, worse than that, I can't purge my mind completely so I can sleep. I stare at the ceiling for what seems like eternity, waiting... listening... hoping. When the alarm wakes me in the morning I don't even remember dreaming. The sweatshirt is still on the bureau.   
  
  
  
  
We actually have a case today, thank God. Catherine, Sara and I work a jumper down on the south end of the strip. A Mandalay Bay base-jumper, to be more precise. Apparently his parachute didn't open. I know how he feels. The surrounding crowd of onlookers prevents me from talking at length with Sara, but we manage to exchange a few meaningful glances. I love sleeping next to her too much to want to bring up how confused I am, or why I want to know where she was last night. Just when I think the vibes will go unnoticed, I swear I catch Catherine staring at me, her eyes shifting back and forth, mind working, processing. I try to hide my eyes from her as much as possible.   
  
  
As I brush my teeth that night, I find myself entranced by my reflection again. I frown. My ears have already betrayed me, and now my eyes threaten to give away everything I need to feel safe. Dammit. I feel a slight sting on my upper right gum. I must have been brushing my teeth too hard again; that always happens when I'm not paying attention. I spit into the sink, watching as a small amount of blood washes down the drain with my toothpaste.   
  
A few moments later, I find myself at the dresser again, holding the sweatshirt in my hand. I stare at it, and swallow hard, closing my eyes. What if she never comes again? I exhale through my nose, and then leave the sweatshirt on the bureau. I fall asleep almost immediately. I'm exhausted.  
  
I manage to dream that night, more vividly than ever before. Maybe it's the deepness of my slumber. Not surprisingly, I dream of Sara. Normally I float in and out of my dream, entering it somewhere in the midst of a kiss, and tonight is no different. However, this time, I sleep so soundly that the dream seems to extend forever. The one kiss blends into another, and fairly soon Sara and I lie in my bed, much like we've done in the past week, only our hands and mouths seem to be everywhere, traveling over each other's bodies, exploring, discovering.   
  
For the remainder of the dream, I make love to her, slowly, passionately, savoring the taste of her, the feel of her, her moans and whispers. As she starts to stir beneath me, clawing at my back, I feel a sudden rush of energy, and I know I'm not far from release. Oh... God... Sara... I call out her name, and all at once the rush passes through me to her with an urgency and electricity I never knew existed until this moment. And as I nearly pass out from the overwhelming sensation, I'm suddenly awake. And I'm not alone.   
  
I blink, staring at the body next to mine. Her shoulder rises, then falls, and then all of a sudden I'm staring into her wide-open eyes.   
  
She stayed.   
  
  
  
  
Work has certainly become more interesting, if not dangerous. Our glances are more frequent, our smiles less subtle, and I brush against her far too often for someone else not to notice. Our random nocturnal ritual still defies my sense of logic, but maybe that's what I like about it. And tonight, more than ever, I hope she comes to my bed again. But more than that, I hope she stays. I know I'll need her. We're all on trial today, the entire lab. My mentor has returned with an armful of ammo, cocked and set to explode in our faces.   
  
I find her examining the sheets, blood-stained with splatters of anger, confusion, pure, blind rage. I doubt Tom Haviland has ever awakened clutching empty sheets. I watch Sara defy Gerard the way I wanted to all those years ago. He seems unshaken, and hands me a folder. Photos of a bra. I nod. Nothing new. And then, I hear the word, and it stuns me. Please... no. Tell me it's my hearing this time. I've never wished I was deaf more than this very moment, right here, right now. Twelve letters. Association. Connection. Link. R-e-l-a-t-i-o-n-s-h-i-p.   
  
  
  
  
After the trial, I run into her in the locker room, stuffing some work clothes into a bag. I can't help but take in the sight of her in that suit one more time. She looks up at me, and stands up as straight as she can.   
  
"You did well up there," she finally offers.   
  
I stare at the floor. "Yeah."  
  
When I don't continue, she zips up her bag, and brushes past me to the doorway. Then she stops, turns around.  
  
"I'll see you tonight, maybe..." she asks, looking back over her shoulder.   
  
I purse my lips, wondering if it will just continue to make everything that much more difficult. Finally, I nod. "Sure."   
  
  
  
I set out the sweatshirt, half-expecting a visit. She's busy nowadays. Laundry. Cleaning. *Him.* I shake the image from my mind, and crawl under the sheets. All too soon, the alarm wakes me, and I sit up in bed, staring at the untouched sweatshirt.  
  
  
  
  
Two hours. That's how long ago I paged her. Two hours of Nick and Warrick and Catherine and... no Sara. I miss her more than I thought I would, and I didn't sleep well. She finally shows up, apologetic, but I know... I know where she was. Who was with her. *Him.*   
  
She looks so utterly disappointed in me, so... angry. I'm being an ass, I suppose, but she needs to work away from me right now, work her own case.   
  
"Solo?" she asks again, in disbelief that I don't need her on this.  
  
"You're on your own." I clench my jaw and watch her storm off.   
  
  
The case closes nicely, all the angles coming together, all of us working together... well, almost all of us. Sara solves hers, of course. I never had my doubts about that. I do have my doubts about why I sent her and not Warrick. Or Nick. She was late. She didn't answer her page.   
  
She was with *him.*  
  
I go back to my paperwork, remembering why I don't normally bother with living people. It's all just too ... hard.   
  
"G'nite," I hear.  
  
She has on more makeup than usual, and a nice leather jacket covers the shirt clinging to her form. Looks like she's ready for a night out with... someone else.  
  
"Good night, Sara." Before I make a bigger fool out of myself, she walks away. Please don't go, I want to shout. "Hey!" is all I can manage. She actually turns back to me. "Nice work on the high school case," I continue, and offer a slight smile.  
  
She smiles back, bigger than I expected. And then I realize I'm still smiling. I suddenly look down at my desk.   
  
"I'm sorry I missed your page," she suddenly says, leaning against the door frame. I want to say I accept the apology, but I don't expect her to continue. "It's just... you tell me to get a life, so I get one... and then you expect me to be there at a moment's notice. It's..." Not fair? Not what you want? "...Confusing."   
  
Struck by her words, I suddenly want her to know that I care, know that I... love her. I take off my glasses and swallow, and then lick my lips. I try and form a response in my head as quickly as possible. What I meant was... what I was trying to say was... I... don't ever ... I need ... I lo-- and then I raise my head, and she's gone. For real. I can't even go back to my paperwork, and I just sit there, thinking. I feel like it's 4th down and goal, and the ball's just been thrust into my arms.   
  
  
  
[fin for now...] 


	3. Just Another Moment IA Sara

"Just Another Moment" - I-A (Sara) By Midnight Caller  
  
Disclaimer: I think it's pretty obvious at this point that I don't own these characters. They clearly own me.  
  
Summary: Companion piece to Just Another Moment pt.1  
  
Spoilers: Hunger Artist  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Thanks: To Nutmeg, Eolivet, and Devanie, three of the most talented writers I have ever known.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
Light.  
  
The hypnotic, cyclical throbbing of an entire city's pulse.  
  
On. Off.  
  
Awake. Asleep.  
  
In love. Spiteful.  
  
Alive. Dead.  
  
Somehow, in the great balance of nature, it all fits. In this mishmashed, automated, somewhat civilized organism, crammed to the gills with neon glare, asphalt, money and greed, there is a rhythm by which everything lives. And the pulse beats on, countless times, every single minute, of every single day, like the ebb and flow of tides. Thirty million visitors come and go, leaving behind thirty billion dollars in a wake of 'ifonly's and 'justonemorespin's. The money quickly enters the city's bloodstream, balancing the output. Ebb and flow. Wax and wane. The pulse continues to throb.  
  
A marquee flickers. A bullet rips through flesh, opens a wound, takes a life. A lover's heart changes course. A note bleats out from the bell of a saxophone. A wheel stops on black, not red. A phone call goes unanswered. A heart breaks, the scream instantly engulfed by the rhythm of the city.  
  
As for me... well, I go to work. When I'm done, I go home. That is my rhythm. Or at least it was until a short time ago. I know my body was in tune with some kind of beat, my internal metronome waking me at the same time every day, and then craving sleep between 20 and 24 hours later, finding some time in there to eat and bathe. After all, I'm a woman; my whole biology revolves around rhythm and timing. My brain has simply been playing along.  
  
Correction: I thought my mind was in sync with my body, but as I slam on the brakes for the third time that night, stopping just short of the bumper ahead of me, I realize my brain has disregarded my body in search of something far more intriguing. Something oblivious to regulation, dismissing the quasi-organic nature of my surroundings. In all my years, I never thought it would happen. I never thought work would be unable to wipe away the distraction, the constant, nagging sensation, the itch yearning to be scratched, the quiet, yet persistent metamorphosis of my entire being.  
  
Damn.  
  
Las Vegas Boulevard is jammed, and I'm in love.  
  
  
  
**  
  
I don't normally drive around this much. Usually it's straight from CSI back to the apartment with "Sidle" messily stenciled onto the mailbox. Maybe it's the case, Ashleigh James's mangled face flashing in and out of my mind, the image coming and going, ebbing and flowing. I shut my eyes for a moment, and stare directly at the memory of her wounds, at the self- hatred, the utter loneliness, the fear. God, that overwhelming fear of losing control. Losing that edge. That fear of being swallowed alive and losing yourself in --  
  
A loud HONK brings me back, and Ashleigh vanishes. I know she'll still haunt me, though. They all do. I take my foot off the brake and ease the car forward.  
  
I run a hand through my hair, reminding myself to be extra careful; my timing is skewed, my rhythm wavering back and forth between workaholic and completely unaware of anything but ... him. I blink again, trying to concentrate on anything else. God knows there's enough to distract me here.  
  
Tonight, as the neon streaks by and the muffled discussion of hopeful gamblers and wishful newlyweds brushes past my ears, I stare through the road ahead of me and try and tell myself that I don't know where I'm going, that I'm just wandering the streets of Las Vegas in search of answers I already know.  
  
Eventually, the glare dies down and I'm passing streetlamps, their washed- out halos pumping out concentric fluorescent beacons out to space. To me. To anyone searching for anything in this town, which is pretty much everyone.  
  
  
  
  
  
I pull into the space as if it's my own, and shut off the engine. In the near silence of the car, my keys waver back and forth, clicking against the steering column. When I realize I'm breathing in time with the sound, I grab the keys in my hand to quiet them.  
  
I sit back in the seat and look up through the windshield. I shouldn't be here. I don't even live here.  
  
Taking in a deep breath, I let it out slowly through my mouth, and close my eyes. I shouldn't be here. I don't even live here.  
  
God, it's late. And I'm exhausted. Could I even make it back home, or would I be consumed by the refuse and blaring lights, the racket and chaos, the sadness, the endless stream of happiness, of couples in embrace, of people in love?  
  
I look back through the windshield. I don't live here. But the comfort and warmth I'm craving at this very moment is so overwhelming it doesn't seem to matter. I don't live here.  
  
But he does.  
  
I pull out my cell phone, and dial the number. If he's not there, then this will be real easy. I'll just drive around until the sun rises and makes me feel just slightly less alone, and then I'll collapse on my sheets, hoping Ashleigh waits at least a few nights before haunting my dreams.  
  
My hand is shaking as I bring the phone to my ear, waiting. It rings once... twice... the digital pulse traversing the airwaves as it rings yet again, and just as I'm about to hang up, he answers. His voice is gravelly, the vocal chords on the brink of consciousness. I woke him.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
My breath catches in my throat, and I panic, hitting the "end" key.  
  
Crap.  
  
Why didn't I just say it was me? Say I need to see you, need to touch you, need to sleep next to you so I don't fall victim to the suffocating stench of loneliness and heartbreak that comes so close to killing me every day.  
  
Please. Please just don't let me be alone right now. Or ever.  
  
  
  
When I open my eyes again, the dark sky has begun to fade into the pale blue of dawn near the horizon. I stifle a yawn and realize I have never slept in my car before.  
  
Without even thinking, I open the door and climb out, stretching my back and arms before staring at the townhouse again. For a while I just stand there, my eyes focused so intensely on the walls of the building that for a moment I'm convinced I can see through them.  
  
I shift onto my left foot. Then my right. I tap the keys against my palm.  
  
  
  
  
  
I don't think he hears me enter the house, or his room.  
  
I find the sight of him asleep comforting in and of itself, and I stand in the doorway, just watching his form rise and fall, hearing him draw a breath, and then exhaling as it exits his body. In and out. Ebb and flow.  
  
Biting my lip, I wander over to the side of the bed, and then carefully crawl on top of the blanket, being as quiet as I can. I slide over and press against his body, closing my eyes. He's so warm, so alive, and I resist the urge to wake him and ask him to do what I know would change everything. And so I turn onto my side, just listening to him breathe.  
  
  
  
A while later, as I waver in and out of sleep, I feel him watching me. I know I should turn over, face him, and explain why I'm here, but I can't. I'm too tired, too drained, and too overwhelmed with how safe and content I am when he's simply in the same room, much less inches away. I'm in love with how he makes me feel.  
  
I reach my hand over to his, and gently pull his arm around me. There is tension in his limbs as I touch him, and I just hope that he'll let me stay here next to him, without explanation, without reason, just to know I'm here because I need him in ways I'm only now discovering for myself.  
  
Eventually, his arm relaxes, and just when I think I've maybe stepped over a forbidden boundary and have endangered ever getting close to him, he runs his finger over my knuckles, gentle and warm. My entire body seems to sigh with relief, and I enter the darkness, embracing the sleep and dreading the dreams.  
  
  
  
It isn't Ashleigh's face that finally awakens me, or the way she looked, cold and frozen on the autopsy table, her body both at peace and yet so distraught and sorrowful. What wakes me is her futile, calculated effort to be perfect. The fact that a soul would go to such extreme measures that it results in the deterioration of its host, its keeper, the shell it fills for the short while it's alive. Does the soul realize the burden it places on the body?  
  
The tears are close; I can feel the burning behind my eyes, the pressure building in my sinuses, the awkward lump crawling up the back of my throat. Before I can even think straight, I turn over to face him. He's still asleep, his face relaxed in a way I've never seen before.  
  
The tears are still begging for release, but I swallow them down, losing myself in the memorization of his mouth. Of his cheeks. His nose. His closed eyes. The way his mussed hair sprouts from his head and swirls around his forehead before spilling onto the pillow. By the time my eyes make their way to his ears, the tears give up and make their way back down, deep inside, for another place, another time.  
  
I blink a few times, making sure they're gone for good, and then look back up. His open eyes startle me at first, and I suddenly speak to keep myself from physically closing the distance between us.  
  
"Grissom... I'm sorry for hanging up on you. I just wanted to make sure you were here."  
  
He says nothing, just looks back at me with such understanding I think for a moment that the tears will return.  
  
I blink them back, and then shiver under his arm.  
  
"Are you cold?" he asks softly.  
  
"I'm a little chilly."  
  
"Second drawer on the left. You'll find a sweatshirt in there."  
  
I offer him a smile, and don't know how to tell him without words how much his kindness means to me. My eyes are draw to the hair I memorized earlier. I reach up and run my fingers through a few curls, hoping he doesn't notice the way my hand lingers slightly too long.  
  
Slipping out from under his arm, and find the sweatshirt. It's incredibly soft, showing slight signs of wear. Yellow letters read "UCLA" across a blue background. Smiling, I slip it over my t-shirt, loving the feel of it on my skin. I can't help but notice it smells like him.  
  
He watches me walk back over to the bed, and I pause, wondering if now is the time or the place to really take the step I want to take... have wanted to take for so long. My body decides well before my brain has time to stop it, and within moments I'm under his sheets, pressed against his skin, his boxers, his direct warmth.  
  
My body has taken over now, and I reach an arm around him, drawing him closer to me. His hand is warm on my shoulder, and he runs it lightly down my arm, down my back, and then up to my shoulder again. When I run my fingers along his waistband, he returns the favor, and I quietly thank whoever's listening just for the mere existence of this man, and I quickly squelch the terrifying thought that I might have never known him.  
  
In the back of my mind, I wonder how just a simple touch can revive the energy that is drained every time I must witness the harm human beings are capable of inflicting upon one another. He said it himself: Every day we meet people on the worst day of their lives.  
  
Normally, that pain flows through me, throbbing and pulsing through my veins like a sluggish, degenerative poison, ever so slowly ripping me apart from the inside out. But lately, I feel as though the toxin is thinning, losing power, and so my blood rushes past, ignoring the contaminant on its way to nourish the rest of my body. I feel the blood rise to the tips of my fingers as they graze against his skin, and my flesh pulses fervently when he returns the touch, his hands running up my back and across my stomach. The sinuous liquid continues to surge, out through the aorta, in through the ventricle. Coming and going. Ebb and flow.  
  
  
  
I lie there with him as day slowly creeps into the room. Light falls across the bed, and the chirps of early risers flutter through the open window. A dog barks, and a car door slams shut. The muted horn of a train wails somewhere in the distance, and then it's quiet again. There's just breathing, and the hushed movement of skin against cloth.  
  
It's in this moment that my eyes finally fall from his eyes to his lips, and I slowly lean my head toward him until I close my eyes, the sensations all that more concentrated in the ends of my nerves. The electricity is buzzing faster now, my blood increasing its flow, and then my lips meet his, so lightly they barely even touch.  
  
I can't hear anything now except the blood rushing through my ears and the sharp intake of breath as our tongues meet. His hand is firm on my back, pulling me closer, and I grip his arm, holding on as I adjust to this new rhythm; the cadence of two bodies, not just one.  
  
After our lips part, he follows my lead as I begin to drift off to sleep. As my eyes slip shut, I know the darkness brings pain, the dull, venomous ache of human iniquity. But then, I feel the poison start to drain, disappearing into nothing more than a forgotten vapor. Perhaps, someday, it will leave me completely.  
  
  
  
(tbc...) 


	4. IIA Sara

Just Another Moment -- II-A (Sara) By Midnight Caller  
  
Disclaimer: Grissom and Sara and CSI all fall under the category of "Not mine." Atlantis Alliance and CBS and Jerry Bruckheimer have the privilege of owning them.  
  
Summary: Part II-A. Unfortunately there is going to have to be a II-B as well, because while I'd still like to do Sara's POV of the TAIE and LTSB events, I'm really having difficulty moving this story beyond where I ended this particular chapter, and didn't get far enough to catch this up with the Grissom POVs. However, I really, really, just needed to post this and get it off my computer. So I apologize if the ending is a little...abrupt.  
  
Rating: PG-13, for intimate-type situations and far too much interior monologue  
  
Thanks to Eolivet and Meg.  
  
*****  
  
  
  
The memories leak into my dream, trembling droplets of mercury struggling to decide whether to remain in perfect circular form, or to return to the larger pool of silver waiting for them close by.  
  
Dummies. He was throwing dummies off the roof. Okay, well, he was watching them fall to their inanimate deaths, but nevertheless, the sight of him so enthused over the experiment makes me chuckle. I watch him move around the bodies, snapping a photo as he exposits the scene to himself. He still looks good. I stifle the grin pulling at my lips.  
  
"Norman fell..."  
  
I smile and step forward. "Wouldn't you if you were married to Mrs. Roper?"  
  
He stops, standing up straighter. "I don't even have to turn around..."  
  
Our conversation pitifully tries to hide the charged exchange occurring between his eyes and mine, and I finally ask about Holly. He answers briefly, before swinging it back to me.  
  
Two years dissolve into two minutes, and I'm lost in those eyes again, just like before.  
  
"God, Sara...  
  
...I have ten people working 'round the clock on this thing!"  
  
His breathing is ragged, and he flails his arms around, the frustration building, building. It's what he always tells me not to do.  
  
"You're too hard on yourself."  
  
"I'm not mad at me! There's a dead body in there and that guy knows where it is!"  
  
It's good to see him angry once in a while. It's good for him. I catch his eye and with a sly grin ask, "What's your pulse at now?"  
  
He gives me a look, and then props his cap up on his forehead, a few curls sticking out beneath the bill.  
  
Sighing heavily, he closes his eyes, and I can't help but stare at him, the softness washing over as he lets his guard down for just a moment.  
  
I don't know why, or how, but I'm suddenly reaching for him. His cheek is warm, my thumb rubbing over the stubble and skin.  
  
He smiles at the touch, one of those embarrassed, closed-mouthed grins. My hand eventually falls from his back, lingering on his shoulder for a few seconds more. Our breaths float out into the chilled air like puffs of smoke.  
  
He rubs his hands against the warmth of the thermos, and then pours us each a cup.  
  
I close my eyes as the hot liquid washes down my throat, quickly spreading a fire across my chest as I curse to myself for drinking too fast. Coffee should be sipped.  
  
I force open my tired lids, and stare at the blinking green cursor. Missing person #24567. White male. 47. Not what I want. I press return for the next record.  
  
"Hey."  
  
I look up to see him in the doorway, and I know what's coming. Too much work. Not enough sleep.  
  
Sleep.  
  
The mercury drips into the blackness, slower than before, oozing lazily toward a larger, silvery mass.  
  
As Grissom leans over the table to speak, his mouth takes twice as long to form the letters, twice as long to make the words, and his voice reaches my ears long after leaving his lips. His head falls languidly to one side, and the entire room seems to be slowing down.  
  
I don't want to leave this dream. I don't want to leave him. I don't want to be alone.  
  
  
  
  
  
The light is nearly blinding when I finally open my eyes, suddenly remembering where I am.  
  
Grissom's curtains float open again, and another streak of sunlight causes my pupils to constrict, and they virtually disappear into two tiny black specks in a sea of surrounding brown.  
  
He moves beside me, shifting just slightly as his hand lets go of its grip on my back. I watch his face as he sighs, and a calmness I've never seen before coats his features, relieving all the stress, all the apprehension, all the uncertainty that always seems to haunt him like a waking nightmare.  
  
I wonder if that happens to me when I sleep, when my hope stands alone in the darkness, a doomed crusader against my countless fears. I think I alone am responsible for losing that battle over and over. As I look beside me, gazing upon the living, breathing being who unknowingly sustains my faith in justice, in love, in all of my personal truths, I wonder why I can't just accept this moment, free myself from the firm grip I have on doubt and fear and acceptance of failure, and let the feelings engulf me the way they should, the way I've wanted them to for as long as I can remember.  
  
Can anyone's heart truly attach itself to one being, one individual in six billion? Does his heart fluctuate, or remain as steady as the beat that drives the blood through his veins? He's opened up to me at brief intervals, and during those moments he gives so much that I can hardly believe it's genuine. I want to believe, but one moment I think I know him, and then he's nothing but a passing stranger. It's only natural that his heart is fickle. It's hard enough to expect intense and focused dedication from one person, much less two. After all, as much as I want them to, I can't even be sure my own feelings will forever remain where they are right now - completely and utterly consumed by the essence of that one in six billion.  
  
It's happened before; fear infiltrates hope, a stealthy assassin waiting for that brief opportunity when one single pang of regret or one droplet of doubt seeps into the mix. Just a single strike, that's all it takes, and before you know it you're running for your life to get as far away as possible, even though you've left most of your heart behind in the process.  
  
My chest aches at the thought.  
  
I shut my eyes, feeling his warmth for just another moment longer, and then I slowly back away, gently lifting the covers and slipping out onto the floor.  
  
He's still asleep when I tiptoe out of the room, and I swear I can still hear his breaths as I quietly shut the door and walk back to my car.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Despite the other feet sharing the hallway with me, all I can hear is the echo of my shoes, claps of thunder ricocheting across an expansive linoleum landscape. It's like I'm trapped in one of my slow-moving dreams, only I can't figure out if I'm about to fall asleep, or if I'm close to waking. All day my mind has been in this strange stasis, going through the motions as it sorts through the massive amount of input, separating the vital work information from the distracting yearnings of my heart.  
  
Work is slow, only encouraging the exploration of all those forgotten cells my brain has tried so hard to hide from me. As I sort through the thousandth casefile, I try to only gloss over the gray matter, memories and smells and long-forgotten sights popping into my consciousness like flickering frames on a strip of film. I try and resist the strong urge to dip farther into some of the touches, the sights, those alluring smells.  
  
The various faces flow in and out of one another like bubbles of oil surfacing in a puddle of water. Blonde hair and brown eyes, black hair and green eyes, hazel eyes and tan skin; they all regard me as if I never left, never ran away, never hesitated, never doubted, never said things I didn't mean, never caused hurt and pain, never thought it wouldn't last. They are memories without memory, always forgiving, ceaselessly trusting, eternally happy, forever in love.  
  
As soon as I start to remember too much of a caress or an errant glance, the fear that chased me away suddenly intrudes without notice, and I almost have to physically shake away the memory. I know the panic is stalking me, waiting for me to slip up, open myself too much, say too much, care too much. And yet, this shadow that follows me around seems to be afraid when I'm in his presence. When I stand close enough to hear his breathing, it's not fear that makes my heart race and my skin blush. When our fingers collide, or our eyes lock, it's not doubt that sets the nerves in my stomach into overdrive, and it's not the haunted flashes of old memories that coats the palms of my hands with a thin layer of moisture every time I think about touching him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
I catch his eyes in the breakroom, glancing over the rims of his glasses as he pretends to complete a crossword. Remembering the night before, a smirk escapes out onto my lips, and I know behind the pages of that book of puzzles is an expression similar to my own.  
  
As I walk away, a strange, comforting warmth flowing through me, I'm astounded with how quickly I fluctuate, how easy it is to go from doubting myself, my faith, and my hope in people, to falling into the deep, soothing pool of naïveté, believing that there is no end to falling in love, no stopping the rush of adrenaline, the nervous laughter, the awkward shifting of feet, the exhilaration of that first embrace, of that original, unspoiled meeting of lips, breaths, and tongues.  
  
  
  
  
  
When I pass Greg in the lab, he waggles his eyebrows in reference to my "movie dates," and I almost have to laugh at the absurdity of his implications. Hank is... not Grissom. That's the simplest way I can categorize our relationship. I laugh at his corny jokes, he gets my wry sense of humor, and he's one of the only people I know who can even begin to understand what I go through every day at work, what I see, how I deal. But he's not Grissom. Whatever that means.  
  
And yet, as much as I distance myself from Hank, I fear what would happen if Grissom found out about him. Would he think I have given up, that I've moved on, that I got tired of waiting for whatever's holding him back to be stripped away? Would he think that I consider him nothing more than a cheap, reliable source of warmth and physical contact for those nights I don't want to be alone? Or am I afraid that's how I treat him?  
  
Those very questions run through my mind as I lie here next to him again, wearing his clothes, sliding my hands against his sheets, resting my head atop the pulsating lifeline responsible for the warmth I enjoy as I press up against him. At least temporarily, the questions are answered, one by one, every time I feel his hand on my back, in my hair, warm against my skin.  
  
It never is enough to convince me... but that's my own fault. Morning comes and I wake before he does, and before I know it I'm out the door, running... just running. By the time I get to the car, out of breath, my cheeks flushed, I've managed to convince myself he doesn't care, never cared, and never will.  
  
  
  
(tbc...) 


End file.
